Chapter Text
It was David who insisted on closing the store for a few days so they could drive down to Patrick’s hometown and see his parents. When they FaceTimed with the Brewers to tell them they’d gotten engaged, they were elated.
Mrs. Brewer had even said, “You boys have to come down and visit so we can all celebrate properly!”
So at the end of the Cabaret run and after the disastrous wedding venue situation, David stood firmly in front of Patrick with his hands on his shoulders and said, “Let’s close for a few days next week and go see your parents.”
So here they were, coasting down the highway toward Patrick’s hometown on a Friday, the store closed until Monday afternoon. Stevie was given a spare set of keys just in case there was an issue.
“How much further?”
David was jittery in the passenger seat, teetering on that fine line between anxious and excited. He’s been fidgeting with the music the whole drive, changing his mind halfway through one song and skipping to the next. It earns a few eyerolls from his fiancé.
"A few more exits.” Patrick reaches a hand across the console to give his knee a squeeze. “You okay?”
“A little nervous,” David nods, but it comes out sounding more like a question.
Patrick gives him a quick questioning glance.
"I think it’s more the excitement at this point,” David continues, hands flying in little circles, “but I really just don’t want to mess anything up.”
Patrick lets out a sigh. “You’re not going to mess anything up.”
He makes a face. “You have too much faith in me.”
“You’re not going to mess anything up,” Patrick repeats. His hand slides a little further up David’s thigh. “My parents love you--“
“They’ve met me in person once.”
“Yes. And they loved you! I think more than me, actually.” It makes David laugh a little. “But we talk to them all the time, and you and my mom have been texting each other a bunch.”
David shrinks a bit in his seat. “Yeah, we do. How’d you know that?”
Patrick just smiles and says, “She told me about it after you insisted on sending her something from the store.”
“Which I paid for.”
“Yes, I know.”
David tucks his lips into a crooked smile and turns his attention back to the radio.
“Half hour,” Patrick says, so David turns on some Fiona Apple and stares at the scenery rushing past.
Out of nowhere, he snaps his head up and says, “We’re not walking into a whole big thing with your entire family waiting to greet us, are we?”
“No,” Patrick’s sincere, “my parents have sworn up and down that they wouldn’t spring that on us. They don't want to scare you away just yet."
Okay, then. Good. He didn’t have to up the charm. He knew Patrick’s parents already, he didn’t need to be too different from his normal self. All David had to do was tone down the dramatics and be as much of himself as he could be. He didn’t have to win the Brewers over, but maybe he should charm them just a little bit, too. Should they have brought something besides the wine he insisted on or--
“David?”
“Huh?”
“We’re here.”
They had pulled in the driveway without David even realizing. He blinks at the sight before him, this house, this landmark, really, causes warmth to spread in his chest. David is smiling at how absolutely beautiful and unexpected it is.
Because for one, Patrick’s childhood home is not blue. It’s white.
He loves it. It’s a slight two-story ranch house with a faded white-painted brick on part of the exterior. There's a wrap-around porch that David can already see himself sitting on with a cup of tea, cozied up in a blanket with Patrick as his parents exchange childhood stories. There’s a basketball hoop hanging above the garage, and David can almost see tween Patrick playing in the driveway for hours against his dad.
The front lawn, save for a scrap of bluebells by the mailbox, is immaculate. He makes a mental note to compliment Mrs. Brewer since Patrick had mentioned she loves gardening and takes pride in her curb appeal, even though Mr. Brewer is the one who does all the mowing. David’s also seen her Pinterest board.
“What do you think?” Patrick asks as he undoes his seatbelt.
David grins widely over at him. “It’s very you.”
“Is it now?”
“It is! It’s homey, it’s welcoming. It’s nothing like where I grew up.”
There’s a shift in the air despite David’s joking tone and Patrick can clearly sense it. His smile falters and there’s a flash of sympathy in his eyes as he places a hand on the back of David’s neck to pull him in for a kiss.
David squeezes his eyes shut when they pull apart just to steady himself for a minute. When he opens them, Patrick gives him a curt nod.
“Ready?’
“Yeah,” David breathes.
They step into the warm daylight. The air smells faintly of jasmine and yep, that’s it. David Rose feels so warm and fuzzy it should be illegal. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s wearing a thick cable-knit sweater in warm weather.
Patrick slams the trunk shut just as the front door to the house opens. Mrs. Brewer is rushing across the driveway toward her son. Patrick meets her halfway, and pulls her into a hug, swaying on the spot. He moves to his father next.
Mrs. Brewer makes a beeline for David.
“It’s so good to see you, David! We’re just so happy you boys are here!”
Just when David’s beginning to feel a little out of place, there’s Marcy Brewer making him feel welcome.
She puts her hands on his face, beaming up at him.
David smiles, “Thank you for having us.”
Mr. Brewer shakes his hand. “Hope the drive wasn't too long. Did you two hit any traffic on the way down?”
Patrick shakes his head. “No, it was smooth sailing. Stopped once for gas and snacks,” he throws a glance toward David, “but other than that we made it here in record time.”
David wrings his hands together. “We ran out of Twizzlers.”
Patrick bumps his hip as he comes up beside him. “All right, lead the way. I’m sure David’s itching for the grand tour.”
Mr. Brewer takes the bags from them both. He heads inside first, up and away somewhere, David assumes Patrick’s old room.
The inside is somehow even homier than he even imagined. As neat as everything is, David can tell this house is well lived-in. He can see the things that make it Patrick’s home as well as his parents’.
For one, there are four baseball trophies decorating the bookshelf in the living room. And Patrick’s actual childhood baseball mitt - which is very small in comparison to the one he uses now - is on display on the mantle. The glove’s well-worn, the leather curling in dulled patches, and the laces look a bit tattered. There’s a citrus-scented candle from the store set up there, too, and by the looks of it, it’s well-used.
It makes him happy knowing the things they’ve sent to the Brewers are being put to use.
Spotting them from across the room, David giddily rushes to the line of picture frames that sit on a shelf by the TV. There’s a picture of the Brewers on their wedding day - they look youthful and gorgeous. They still kind of do , David admits to himself.
Aside from that, there are multiple photographs of Patrick. One of a grumpy-looking toddler with an oversized baseball cap, head in his hands as he sits on a patio step. Next to it sits a photo of him with a wide grin showing off his missing front teeth. David plucks that frame off the shelf and turns to Patrick, who looks a little sheepish.
“I love this one,” holding the frame out for his fiancé to see.
“You can have that one if you’d like,” comes Mrs. Brewer’s voice at his shoulder. It’s cheery and a little teasing. That’s where Patrick gets it from, David thinks.
“I might take you up on that.” David places it back carefully. He gasps at the next two.
In a joint-frame is a photo of Patrick in his high school baseball uniform. It’s an action shot of him up at bat. But the photo in the next slot has David’s jaw dropping.
“Oh my god your hair!”
A college-aged Patrick is smiling up at him from where he sits on a concrete wall between two people, his arms around their shoulders. His hair is long and curly, a piece drops right onto his forehead. He’s wearing loose-fitting jeans and sneakers and a green hoodie. It might be a young version, but Patrick is wearing the same smile.
“Those are his cousins on Clint’s side,” his mother notes. “That’s Paige and that’s Mitchell. It was taken in Toronto the summer before Patrick’s second year of college.”
Mr. Brewer comes into the living room then. He laughs when he sees the frame David’s holding.
“It used to be so long,” he notes his son’s hair, clapping Patrick on the shoulder. “It looked good, I don’t know why you cut it.”
“Because I only had so much patience for it,” Patrick states. He crosses his arms.
David points to it. “Can you grow your hair out like this again?”
He thinks about it for a second; his fiancé with much longer, much curlier hair. He imagines running his fingers through it, tugging at a ringlet and watching it bounce. He thinks about Patrick wearing those wool beanies in the winter, his hair tousled from being trapped underneath. David’s stomach gives an excited swoop at the thought.
Patrick’s head falls. “David!”
“What? You look great with long hair!”
“Only one of us can spend a long time in the bathroom, and you already have that title.”
David scoffs, defensively. “Right, but when you shave you add, like, fifteen minutes to your routine.”
Patrick seemingly ignores the teasing comment. “I was also, like, twenty there. I don’t think it would work now.”
“It totally could!”
“I will think about it,” Patrick says, “but I’m not making any promises.”
Satisfied with that answer, David returns the frame to its spot on the shelf. Patrick comes up and loops an arm around his waist.
His mother smiles at them both. “All we need now is a picture of the two of you.”
He looks at Patrick with a pinched smile. “O-okay.”
Noticing his flush, Patrick leans up and kisses David’s cheek, which only makes his face more red.
“Oh! Patrick, I was going to mail these to you.” Mr. Brewer steps off into the dining room for a second. He comes back with a flat shipping envelope. “I found your spare guitar strings when I was in the basement last week. Figured I’d just give them to you now.”
Patrick peers inside the envelope. “I didn’t realize I had so many extra packs. Thanks, Dad.” He turns to David. “I’m going to put these in my bag. Want to come with? I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
David nods.
“Bags are already in your room,” Mr. Brewer confirms.
Patrick takes David’s hand. The rest of the house is just as well-decorated as the living room and glance of the dining room he had gotten. There are more photos lining the walls of all three of them; vacations, graduations, what David assumes is a framed holiday card from when Patrick was in his teens.
Patrick points out the bathroom - “My parents have their own, don’t worry about rushing to get ready for bed tonight.” - and the home office.
He pats on a narrow door between the bathroom and the office. “And this is where the ghosts are.”
David stiffens on the spot. “So I know you’re joking, but I will literally never be able to sleep again if you’re not.”
Patrick raises his eyebrows in response.
“Don’t.”
He opens the door to reveal stacks of folded towels and spare bed sheets. “It’s just the linen closet.”
“Oh, good.”
“Yeah, the ghosts live in the attic.”
“Patrick.” It earns David a laugh.
They finally get to a white door with a chip in the molding.
Patrick swings it open to reveal a neutral-colored room with a queen-size bed, fluffy navy blue duvet and matching pillow cases. Excluding some memorabilia, Patrick’s room is less-so his, and more-so a converted second bedroom. Where David assumes there would have been posters or something on the walls, there are two matching landscape art prints hanging there.
“This was my room,” Patrick announces, a little hesitantly. “Now the guest room.”
David closes the door behind them. He watches Patrick look around the room, watches as he tucks the envelope his dad gave him into his bag.
For a second, they both stand there without saying anything else. David takes in the room around him; it’s tasteful and warm. He thinks Patrick might be a little off-center about it, hence his silence.
David slides his palm up Patrick's back until it reaches the spot between his shoulder blades and rubs gentle circles with his thumb until he turns to face him. David angles his head down until their foreheads meet and he kisses him slowly, gently. It’s a dizzying and intoxicating kiss, Patrick’s kisses always are.
When he pulls away, Patrick’s eyes are soft.
David rubs at his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you looked a little lost for a second,” he sighs.
Patrick shrugs. “I guess it’s a little weird to see it so…not me.” He pauses to look around again. David follows his eyes to the refinished dresser under the expanse of windows. “I mean, this is all years-old at this point. My parents did this after I moved in with Rachel, but it’s still a little weird. Part of me always kind of expects to walk back in here and see posters everywhere and my records set up in a corner, my baseball bat leaning somewhere.”
David guides him over to the bed. He takes a seat, keeping Patrick standing between his legs. He gives his hands a squeeze and says, “Tell me about it. Tell me about your room.”
Patrick doesn’t look at him. “Alright.”
“Was it blue?”
That gets Patrick to laugh. Success . “Yes. It was a light blue, always was. I had two Blue Jays posters on that wall,” he points to the wall behind him. “And above my bed was a Neil Young poster.”
Patrick turns around, but he keeps one hand in David’s. “My record player used to sit on the dresser and the racks were…in that corner right there. Most of them were my Dad’s or one of his brother’s.”
“What records did you have?”
“Pretty much what I have now,” Patrick starts. “A few Beatles records. Um, Neil Young, obviously, Leonard Cohen. My dad had two or three Dean Martin albums that he gave to me one year, Fleetwood Mac, too.”
David hums, “Stevie Nicks.”
“Of course.”
David likes seeing Patrick reminisce like this. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that's making him fall in love all over again.
“Is this the same bed you always had?” He pats at the bedspread.
“It is.”
David’s wearing a mischievous grin when he asks, “And did anything fun happen in it?”
Patrick goes beet red. “Yeah, on occasion,” he admits. “A lot of messy make out sessions.”
“Mh. And heavy-petting.” He clasps his hands together, squinting. Patrick looks a little deflated at the comment but he gets an eye-roll in return, so it works out.
David purses his lips. “Besides girls, were there ever any boys that you wanted to come up here with?”
Patrick hesitates and for a moment David thinks he’s gone too far. Just as he’s about to backpedal, however, Patrick speaks up.
“I’m not sure. I don’t really think I understood what that was at the time, you know?”
David nods along.
“But there is one guy,” Patrick continues, his voice quieter. “and he’s here now, so.”
David places his hands flat on the bed beside him. “I love you, but I’m not doing anything with your parents in the next room over. There's a reason I have a ‘No sex at the motel’ rule. I almost walked in on Alexis and Ted once, like six months ago. And there was a very awkward encounter when I was hooking up with Jake.” David shudders, one hand gesturing in a little circle. “My parents and my sister all came into the room after he got out of the shower. He was shirtless, and Alexis is kind of a bitch, so."
Patrick shrugs. “I mean, we could be quiet.”
David’s hands find his way to Patrick’s waist. “Yeah, no. I’ll settle on making out like teenagers, but we’re not having sex here.”
He’s smiling as Patrick leans down and whispers and “Okay,” against his lips.
“Anyway,” he continues, spinning back toward the dresser. “My guitar was always right here next to my record stand. My hamper was in the closet and always overflowing, because that’s what you do when you’re in high school. Throw stuff in until your mom comes and yells at you to do your laundry.”
David laughs a little. When he was growing up, he just had to drop his less-delicate things in a hamper and they'd be clean and put away the following morning thanks to his parents’ abundance of housekeepers.
“Yeah, remember that you and I had very different teenage experiences.”
“Yeah. Hey,” Patrick sitting down next to David, “I’m really happy we came to visit them. I missed them a lot.”
“I know you did,” He presses his lips to Patrick’s temple twice.
“Really, I’m good, I promise you.” Patrick leans into his side, smiling. “I’m happy that you're with me, and I’m happy that you insisted we do this.”
“Of course.” David brings a hand up to the back of Patrick's head, letting his fingers trail through the short hair.
“I still think you should grow your hair out,” David states.
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
He plays with the sleeve of Patrick’s green crewneck, smirking. “Nope.”
“Maybe after the wedding,” Patrick says after a moment. “I’d prefer not to look like a total maniac in our wedding photos.”
“You wouldn't look like a maniac. Who ever said you looked like a maniac?”
“Me. When I finally decided to cut it short.”
David gives him a look.
“It was partially because I was getting annoyed with it and partially because I had a job interview and wanted to look presentable.”
“I can respect that,” David says. “But I don’t really think the people you work with now would mind if you did, though.” He brushes a hand through Patrick's hair in emphasis.
Patrick pushes him. “Let’s go back downstairs before my mom calls for us.”
David trails behind him, remembering to grab the bottle of wine from his bag for the Brewers.
“You know, I bet your mom would agree with me.”
“David, don’t make this weird.”
“I’m not!”
Something in the kitchen smells amazing. It’s olive oil, rosemary, and parmesan cheese David realizes when he sees Mrs. Brewer pull a tray of fingerling potatoes from the oven. She gives the tray a good shake, shifting the potatoes around so they don’t stick. The oil sizzles as she pops them back in.
“You boys all settled?” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel that’s sitting on the counter. Butcher’s block, David notes. Nice.
“Yeah, we’re good, Mom.” Patrick looks past her through the expansive kitchen window. “Hey, you guys set up the fire pit!”
His mother looks out with him. “We did! It took a little while because your father needed to replace the stonework around it, but it’s good to go. I figured that we could use it tonight.”
There’s a sense of familial love that makes something in the pit of David’s stomach long for. Maybe it’s the idea of sitting by a fire with the Brewers drinking wine or making s’mores or doing whatever normal families do that excites him a little bit.
“Speaking of,” she speaks up again. “Patrick, why don’t you help Dad with the grill while David and I prep some of the other things for dinner.”
“Oh, I don't think you want me to cook,” David laughs, waving his hands, “just ask Patrick.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Patrick counters. “You made that great lemon pasta last week. And you even paired a great wine with it.”
David ignores Mrs. Brewer’s proud smile and says, “I was following a step-by-step Bon Appétit recipe, and it was foolproof. Also, I know how to pair wine with things. I have exquisite taste.” He angles his head back, a little embarrassed at his comment. So much for feigning selflessness.
Patrick hums. “That you do,” he says with his lips pressed to his cheek.
“Well we’re not cooking a four-course meal,” Mrs. Brewer says as she places two stacked glass bowls onto the counter. David smiles. “But I do need help with some sides; asparagus, string beans, I need to sauté the peppers and onions for the sausage, too.”
“Okay.” He bites back his smile.
“Great!” She steps over to the fridge and pulls out a big tray of sausage links and hamburger patties to hand to her son. “Patrick, go ahead and take this out to your father. He's cleaning the grill and he's already got a beer out there for you.”
She gives her son a kiss on the cheek and sends him on his way, Patrick raising his eyebrows at David as he leaves.
Remembering the bottle that’s in his hands, David delicately places it on the counter, albeit a little nervously. “This is for you, Mrs. Brewer. From the store. It’s a really good bottle of shiraz from one of our suppliers.”
“Thank you, David,” she smiles. “we’ll have it with dinner. And please call me Marcy. Mrs. Brewer sounds too formal.”
David clears his throat. Marcy Brewer really is one-of-a-kind when it comes to making people feel so welcome and comfortable.
He plants his hands firmly on his hips, determined, “What do you need help with?”
“Well,” she pulls out a stool and gestures for him to sit. “Everything's all washed, we just need to cut the ends off the greens and then I’ll just toss them in the oven until they’re done. Black pepper, some sea salt, and a little bit of olive oil is all we need for them.”
While David gets to cutting the ends off the string beans, tossing the discarded bits into a spare bowl, Marcy gets to sautéing the peppers and onions over the stove.
He had forgotten how methodical it is to cut and prep vegetables for a dish. He’d done it a few times when he lived alone and didn’t order takeout, and when David was much younger he would help Adelina or one of his father’s personal chefs in the kitchen.
“I spent a lot of time alone in New York,” David says, out of the blue. He shocks himself with his own statement and bites his tongue for a second, thinking that maybe he can pretend that he didn't just say that. But Marcy’s looking at him over her shoulder. He suddenly feels comfortable enough so he continues.
“I did a bit of cooking, but it was all really basic, boring stuff.”
“Do you like cooking? I see your Pinterest boards, you know.”
“I really like food,” he laughs, and Marcy laughs along with him. “And my Pinterest boards are very ambitious.”
“Well I don't blame you.” She sets the cast-iron pan aside and covers it so everything stays hot. “Maybe it’s my maternal instinct, but I find so much comfort in cooking. When I was growing up we had this big kitchen, Patrick’s grandmother would set up stations at the table and we’d all have a role when it came to making dinner on Sunday nights. I’m one of four -- two sisters and one brother -- so sometimes it took a lot of corralling to get us to cooperate.”
David loves how easy it is to imagine Marcy cooking with Patrick and Clint (he can say Clint, right?) weekly as well. A much younger Patrick mixing something together while his parents did the more adult tasks like working over the stove or using the knives. Maybe they had a family pizza-making night.
“We never really had any of that,” David mutters, and he’s smiling, though the notion's a little sad. “We were always doing our own thing. A lot of the time my parents were out, too.”
Marcy’s face falls a little bit from where she stands across the island. “Is it something you wanted?”
“I didn’t think about it much until we moved to Schitt’s Creek and were all thrust together in that tiny motel room.” He shrugs. “Actually, there was this one time where my mom got the grand idea to cook dinner and somehow I got commandeered into helping out. It was a mess. But, no one got food poisoning so I’d give us a solid D-minus.”
That gets Marcy to smile again. David slides the glass bowl forward, now filled to the brim with chopped bits of asparagus and string beans. She takes them from him, mixes in the seasoning and dumps them on a tray which she trades out for the potatoes in the oven.
She makes haste in uncorking the bottle of wine and pouring out two glasses. “I don't think the boys will take much notice if we start on this without them.” She passes a glass to David with a wink.
His mouth twists into a shy smile as he takes a sip. Looking over her shoulder, David sees pictures and invitations hanging on the fridge. Of course the Brewer household would have a fridge decorated with grocery lists and cheesy magnets. He spots the notecard with the Rose Apothecary logo that they put into every order.
David's eyes flick to the picture next to it.
“Is that Patrick with a guitar?”
Marcy spins on her barstool. “Yeah, he used to play these open mics all the time at this little--”
“--Café,” he finishes. She’s looking at him again, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “He told me about it. We had one back at the store when we first started dating and, uh…Patrick insisted on playing.”
Marcy doesn’t say anything, she’s smiling, so David continues. “That was the first time he ever sang to me. I mean, I didn’t even know he could sing or play guitar. I didn’t know what to expect! I thought I was going to be embarrassed from mediocre performances. But then Patrick stepped on stage and--” He throws his hands out in front of him, palms-up. “--he sang. To me. There were other people in the room but he was singing to me. And it turns out he has an incredible voice.”
“He does,” Marcy agrees, looking a little nostalgic, “My boy has the sweetest voice.”
David plays with his engagement rings. “It was a really emotional night. And my mom was there,” he shudders. “That was the first time I realized how good your son is. Like, I always knew, but I mean that's when I really knew. That’s when I knew that things with Patrick were different, and I knew that I could let myself be vulnerable around him. I didn’t have to hide anything. I used to hide everything.”
He swipes at his eye. “There’s this leather jacket I have that I would put on in another life and just...transform you know? The jacket was this mask I would just put on to play myself up for a little while, be someone I’m not.” David looks anywhere but Marcy. “I don’t have to do that with Patrick. It was really unhealthy. I knew that at the time but I didn’t accept it until, like, after I met Stevie, if you remember her.” He laughs wetly.
“So, I’ve never had that - this,” he gestures vaguely, “- with other people.” David’s voice is thick. “I’m really lucky to have him in my life, and I’m really lucky to be marrying him. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
David shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I’m word-vomiting,” he says. “This isn’t a therapy session. You found out that your only son was gay just a few months ago, and between then and now we’ve gotten engaged. It’s all so untraditional, too. Like, we don’t even live together - not officially , I mean nine times out of ten I’m at Patrick’s. And we’ll obviously be moving in together at some point. I actually thought we were looking for a place together when he looked at his apartment.
“I’m sorry if this is all so shocking to you and Clint, or if it’s all happening so fast…" David stops when Marcy cups her hands over his on the countertop.
All Marcy Brewer has done for the last five minutes is listen to him intently and now, just by a comforting touch, she’s bringing him back down to earth before he can tailspin into a hyperventilating panic induced by embarrassment. She’s good, she’s really good.
“David, honey,” she begins, sincerely. “You make Patrick happy. Happier than he's ever been. I told you when we met, Clint and I aren't upset about him being gay. Do you know why?”
David only blinks.
“It's because all we have ever wanted for our son is for him to be happy and comfortable with who he is. Success, to us, is happiness, and seeing him so happy means Clint and I have done something right.
“Pacing is one thing, but to hell with that.” She waves a hand. “He is so, so in love with you, David. I can see it from miles away. If my son is happy, and if you make him happy - which I already know you do - then that is all that matters.”
She gives his hands a squeeze and says, “You're part of our family now, so don't you dare be shy with us. Anytime you need anything I’m just a text or a phone call away. I want to get to know my son-in-law better. Okay? Three days every few months isn’t enough for us to do that. We’ll work something out and if it's alright by you, maybe we can come up to help you two with the wedding?”
David’s grinning from ear-to-ear, cheeks tear-stained. “We’d really like that,” he whispers.
“Good.” Marcy stands up from her spot at the counter. What she does next only partially shocks David.
She drops a kiss to his hair.
His chest tightens a little with happiness.
“Now, we have one last thing to prep before dinner.” She wipes her hands together.
David stumbles over a laugh. “What’s that?”
“I’m going to teach you how to make one of Patrick’s favorite desserts.” Marcy lifts a brown paper bag from where it sits by the sink and carries it back over to their cutting board set-up. David peers inside, there are at least a dozen apples.
“An apple crumb slab tart.”
“That sounds ambitious.” He tilts his chin up, squinting.
“It's really not that hard to make.” Marcy begins pulling out the ingredients - brown sugar, cinnamon, sea salt, flour - and setting them each on the counter. “I have vanilla ice cream in the freezer to serve with it later, and…” She pulls out an amber-colored bottle of bourbon from under the counter. “The secret ingredient.”
David’s eyebrows shoot up. “Um, yes!” He takes the apples over to the sink and starts to rinse them. He gets into a meditative rhythm, washing the apples under cool water for a few minutes as Marcy starts on the pie crust. He smiles at her over his shoulder.
“You know, I'm not sure if Patrick ever told you this,” Marcy says as she sets an apple corer next to him. “but the morning we left after we came for his birthday, he told us he was going to propose to you.”
David nearly drops the apple he’s holding. “H-he did?”
Marcy’s eyes sparkle as she recounts the conversation. “He specifically said, ‘I’m going to marry him. I’m going to ask David to marry me.’”
He starts blinking rapidly. He swears if he starts crying again...
“And you…?”
“Oh, honey I was so happy to hear him say that.”
“But with Rachel-” Oh, so that’s happening now.
“David, please don’t compare yourself to her. She’s a lovely girl, really she is, but she clearly never made my Patrick as happy as he is with you. It’s an exponential difference. I see how you two are together; Patrick’s happiness is so different now, and you can tell because there is nothing holding him back.”
David braces himself on the counter, but he’s smiling. He wishes, just for a second, that he met the Brewers years ago, wishes that he knew their warmth and hospitality and their acceptance earlier in his life. David wishes he met Patrick earlier, too, but he doesn’t dwell on it all too long - like he said after the housewarming party, their paths crossed at the right time.
“Are you okay, sweetie?”
David snaps his head up and nods, brows up by his hairline. “Yes, yeah. I am, I really am. I’m happy we found each other when we did.” His voice gets a little tight at the end there, he clears his throat. “Okay, let’s keep going with this apple thing before I cry myself into a puddle with all this sentimentality.”
--
“I think you were nine or ten when that happened.”
Clint’s recounting a story from Patrick’s childhood about the time he was tasked by a neighbor to feed their cat. The aforementioned cat had apparently proceeded to escape through the back door and race down the street while Patrick bolted after him.
“Hey, I caught him eventually.”
“With my help,” his father teases.
“Okay,” Patrick grins. “But which one of us climbed under the Canton’s deck to get Reggie?”
“That would be me because you were afraid there were mice.”
“That is not true!” Patrick throws his hands up in exasperation. “I’m the one that grabbed him!”
“Yes, by the back legs.” Clint leans back in his chair, and Patrick just shakes his head.
David’s enjoying this all too much as he laughs over his second glass of wine. He feels a little warm and fuzzy, but he’ll chalk that up to the wine if anyone asks.
Dinner was excellent, and filled with banter and stories just like the one being told. He loves it, the casual reminiscing of Patrick’s childhood; it’s charming, and certainly unlike his own, what with Alexis being a total pest and their mother teaching him (unwillingly) how to properly handle her wigs.
Marcy makes a stand to start collecting the dishes, one by one, stacking the extra bowls together.
“Do you want any help taking stuff in, Mom?”
Marcy declines. “No, go get the firepit going. I’ll make some tea, give me a few minutes.”
Clint stands as well. “I guess that’s my cue to grab some blankets?” He looks toward his wife, who nods.
“I’ll start the fire, then.” Patrick reaches out a hand to help David up. “Grab a chair.”
They place four chairs around the stonework, and David sets two very close together. He knows the armrests will be digging uncomfortably into his ribs sooner or later as he snuggles up with Patrick, but he really just doesn’t care. He’s too blissed-out.
Marcy returns eventually with a tray of mugs and sets it on the long folding table Patrick grabbed with one of the chairs.
The fire’s roaring and the sun is far enough behind that trees that a cool shadow is being cast over them all. Marcy comes back outside one last time with the tray of apple slab, cutlery and plates. Patrick’s already draped a thick blanket around the both of them.
“David helped with this one,” she announces cheerily.
David glances over just in time to catch Patrick’s thrilled expression. “Did you now?”
“Just a bit. I peeled the apples.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, David, you made the topping too.” She passes them each a plate already topped with vanilla ice cream.
“This looks amazing.” Patrick moves his hand from where it’s resting on David’s thigh to take a bite. “Oh man.”
“How’d I do?” David’s smirking, he can’t help it.
“It’s amazing.”
Patrick’s right. It’s divine. Can you even use that to describe food? David doesn’t care - he’s going to.
“Mom, you have to give us the recipe.”
“I already have it printed out for you both. David’s done it once, he can do it again.”
“Not without your supervision,” he jokes, turning to Patrick. “I’m not going to risk burning down your building.”
Patrick rubs at the back of David’s neck. “Again with the lack of confidence.”
“David I have full faith in you,” Marcy smiles. “Just remember the bourbon.”
Clint slaps his knee with a gasp. “So that’s what it is! I think we’ve solved it, Patrick.”
There’s a beat, and then David says, “Yeah, so I love your mom.”
Clint laughs softly. “Well that makes-” he points to himself, then David and Patrick. “-three of us, then.”
Marcy swats and his arm, it’s endearing, and that fuzzy feeling is back in David’s chest again.
Patrick takes their plates once they’ve both polished off the pie. He sets them down and pulls David in as close as the chairs can allow. His parents are going on about something in regards to the neighbors, but they’re not focusing on that.
“What do you think,” Patrick whispers. He doesn’t break eye contact with David. “Nothing to be nervous about, right?”
David hums. “No, I guess not.”
Patrick’s looking at his lips longingly, like he always does before they kiss, so David leans in. Patrick tastes sweet and sticky from the apples and vanilla ice cream. There’s nothing fancy or hot about it, but David’s melting into the kiss, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Patrick pulls back too soon for his liking, and while David makes a noise in protest, they really shouldn’t put on too much of a show in front of his parents.
David rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder, eyes drifting shut for a moment.
“Any plans for tomorrow, boys?”
He can feel Patrick shrug beneath him. “I was thinking of showing David around, maybe drive down to the lake or something.” When David gives him a look, he adds, “Don’t worry, we’re not going in.”
“The lake,” Clint straightens a little in his chair. “It’s been a long time since you’ve gone there.”
“I figured since it was a big part of my childhood,” Patrick begins, “I’d show David.”
“That makes sense,” Clint nods. “The farmers market is tomorrow. I’m sure Schitt’s Creek has their fair share, but ours isn’t too bad, either.”
David sits up at that. “That sounds nice.” He turns to Clint, squinting a little. “Um, are there baked goods or should I anticipate a bunch of produce?”
Patrick laughs, David ignores it.
“It’s a healthy mix,” Marcy affirms. “It’s lovely, you two should really check it out tomorrow.”
David’s hand finds Patrick’s in his lap and links their fingers together.
“Would be nice,” Patrick says. “Who knows, maybe we’ll find something for the store.”
“Patrick, think about something other than work for ten seconds.”
“What? We’re bound to run into someone that’s going to ask what we do,” he defends.
David’s stomach swoops a bit at that indication. Right, they’re in Patrick’s hometown. Patrick knows people here, other than his parents. Like old classmates and friends and exes.
Patrick squeezes his fingers in reassurance. “It’ll be fine.” His smile calms David’s nerves. “We’ll have fun tomorrow.”
David smirks. “You’re bringing me to wherever you played the baseball, aren’t you?”
“Hey, you hit that home run.” He dives right into the baseball story for his parents, David interjecting with comments on how competitive Patrick had gotten, and when he tells them about his Dad throwing the ball right into the center of his back, they all laugh.
It circles around like that for a while, more stories about their childhoods (and one about Alexis deciding to take her mattress down the stairs a-la Princess Diaries 2) until the fire goes low and they turn in for the evening.
Later, when David returns from the bathroom dewy-faced and ready for bed, Patrick’s upright against the pillows with his nose in a book. He climbs under the covers next to him and settles into his side.
Despite the shower, Patrick still smells a little bit like woodsmoke and it’s intoxicating. David takes the book from his hands and kisses him senseless. It only lasts for a few minutes before it gets a little too deep, what with David’s hand finding its way under Patrick’s shirt.
Between soft laughter, Patrick says, “You said it yourself, David. My parents are in the next room.”
He reaches over to turn out the light as David swats at him.
“Did I or did I not say I was up for making out like teenagers?”
“You did,” Patrick says. He paws for him in the dark, and David lets himself be pulled down.
They’re just a mess of tangled limbs and bedsheets and echoing laughter for a while. Making out like teenagers, be damned. David’s making out with his soon-to-be husband.